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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25547314">Sawdust</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustaGibbsgirl/pseuds/JustaGibbsgirl'>JustaGibbsgirl</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Six Degrees of Jaqueline Sloane [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>NCIS</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Slibbs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 10:29:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,667</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25547314</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustaGibbsgirl/pseuds/JustaGibbsgirl</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A case study of Special Agent Jacqueline Sloane</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jethro Gibbs/Jacqueline "Jack" Sloane</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Six Degrees of Jaqueline Sloane [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1847821</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>69</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Sawdust</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Tag to 17x11 In the Wind</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was musty. As basements should be. Some days she notices the small intricacies of it. And some days the basement just exists. Some days she finds him in it, sanding the ribs, a cloud of sawdust thick around him, settling on his clothes, his hair. Some days he finds her in it, perched on a stool, handling each woodworking tool, looking for the story behind it. In the beginning, she didn't understand it. She didn't see the way the low light matched his every step, his every thought. She didn't see the echoes of the memories that besieged him, that mocked him, that coddled him. She didn't see all the women that had tried and ultimately failed to become the escape that the basement provided for him. As a psychologist, the basement was a case study in avoidant personality disorder or at least something along those lines. As a woman, the basement was his tell. And tell it did. It took only moments to decipher the mood within the walls. Anyone looking close enough could see the details layered into each molecule of sawdust as it sifted through the air. The thicker the cloud, the worse the day. The grainy footprints on the concrete floor told their own story. Different kinds of days meant different Rorschach patterns imprinted in the wood powder. And for someone who hated them with the passion that he did, he sure managed to create some intricate ones.</p><p>Tonight, though….tonight was the end of a day when the evidence of its weight might end up hanging in the air a little longer than usual, a little heavier. It might attach itself to their souls until the world felt right again. Or it might sit idly by while they attempted to piece back together the portion of themselves that they had lost in this case. Tonight she fought hard with herself not to fidget while waiting for him. Sitting at the workbench, she traced her own patterns into the thin layer of dust that was settled in front of her. When even that became too monotonous, she stood. Stepping towards the boat, her fingers traced the lines in one complete motion from bow to stern. The path her fingers took left a jet trail of fine grit in their wake.</p><p>A sanctuary of sawdust, she thought, shaking her head. In the silence surrounding her, she made out the sound of Gibbs truck exhaust as it rolled down the street, slowly creeping into the drive. She felt as tired as the truck sounded.</p><p>Shutting the truck engine off, he sat silently, hands in his lap, taking stock of the moment. His eyes closed, his mind fast forwarding through the worst parts of the day and trying to pause at the only two moments of peace he had known in those 24 hours. Both of which involved Army green, blonde hair and eyes that melted him like the sugar in her coffee. The Cooper on the street behind him only gave credit to what he already knew.</p><p>He had known she would be there, waiting for him. He had pleaded to her with nothing more than a shared glance in that conference room earlier. Amidst the miracle, amidst the smiles and relief, the ocean depths of his eyes had crashed into hers, begging for the solace that he knew they possessed.</p><p>Ultimately he had fought his brain the rest of the day to find the right words for her. He had almost stopped her again in the elevator but her name had caught in his throat and never made it past his lips. Apologies were meant for wrong actions, for wrong words spoken, and for him, words unspoken. But concessions could be made, should be made, for this woman who simply wanted him to allow her to shoulder some of the fearfulness that she knew was churning inside of him.</p><p>**</p><p>His mind barked at him. “Don’t apologize, sign of weakness.” His mantra, the sixth rule. Another Army blonde came crashing into his brain. “I thought it took strength to apologize.” He could see those striking green bedroom eyes piercing him across the desk even now. His shoulders straightened at the thought of her. She had been right then, she was still right now. Offhandedly he wondered if he’d ever get a chance to tell her that, another chance to explain that she should never have been the one to apologize.</p><p>“You shoulda just asked.” His words came biting back to him. God, what a jackass. No wonder she had needed to put almost 5000 miles between them. Hollis had asked. Plenty of times, in a million different ways. Directly, indirectly. With words, with eyes, with her hands, her lips. But he had somehow made her feel like she was in the wrong.</p><p>**</p><p>And in the elevator earlier today, he had dealt the same asinine attitude towards an undeserving Jack. The cool lights of the elevator had done nothing for his heated anger, his sense of dread and fear for the boy. And there she had been, pushing him, asking if he was okay, asking the same question that she had been asking repeatedly for the last three years. Jesus. Three years. Had it really been three years since she had swan dived into his life with a lollipop and a life jacket? So he had done the same thing he had always done, divert and avoid.</p><p>He had accepted her warmth, her arms, as no more than a diversionary tactic. And it had worked. He had made her believe that she was accomplishing the impossible. And, ever the asshole, he had flipped the switch. Literally and figuratively. “After…we find Phineas.” She knew he didn’t mean it. <em>He</em> knew he didn’t mean it. False hope. So much of her life was based on the false hope that he delivered to her on an hourly basis. And she allowed it. She allowed the sawdust sentiments to cloud her judgements, her empty spaces. Because maybe…maybe a half second of shared space, a half second of shared pain, of arms tightly wrapped, of scents intermingled, was enough to perform a miracle. And she told him as much. What he didn’t hear though, was how she intended to deliver on said miracle. He didn’t hear her silent vow to his exiting form. And she was<em> going</em> to deliver. Both on the miracle and the embrace that would follow.</p><p>She was here tonight to hold him accountable to those words. She was going to hold him to the embrace she knew that they both needed, that they both knew was now coming...after...finding Phineas.</p><p>**</p><p>The basement beckoned to him, his brain acting quickly to soothe and heal the piercing of his armor, the scent of sawdust calling to him. Pavlov’s theory worked with basements and bastards just as well as it did with bells and dogs. “We’re all just trying to help you and you’re not letting us.” It took that replay of words for him to find his feet.</p><p>She had expected the pause after hearing him kill the engine. Her pulse quickened when she heard the truck door slam. Fighting every compulsory female instinct as his feet fell heavy on the stairs, she remained rooted to her spot against a sawhorse. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting. Actually, that was a lie. She felt like she knew exactly what to expect. Pavlov’s conditioning knew no exclusivity and she could hear the basement and bastard theory that she had become so accustomed to, whirring to life within the darts and demons that commanded her own innermost thoughts.</p><p>She dropped her eyes to her feet, giving him a moment of respite to gather himself without her penetrating gaze. She counted his steps, listened for the creak of the last wooden stair before lifting whiskey brown to meet storm cloud blue. The unspoken between them was volumes deep, and the calm of the sawdust around her did little to quell the trepidation pounding against her ribs. She easily read the slump of his shoulders, easily counted the five or more worry lines that had been permanently added to the masses over the last 24 hours. The five o’clock shadow, something she secretly found so desirable, crossed weathered features and now added years that she would gladly give away ten of her own just to erase.</p><p>Trading places with her, his knees almost audibly screaming for relief from the heaviness of the day, he sat atop the sawhorse, legs open, reaching for her hands to draw her closer. She stood in front of him, eyes level with his, trying to read the stoic soliloquy. She pushed down the urge to speak, to fill the void with useless words. She had said her piece earlier in the day. No more words from her were needed. His hands beneath hers, resting on his lap, his thumbs drawing circles on her smooth skin.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Jack,” his voice cracking, barely above a whisper.</p><p>No weakness anywhere in his words. He squeezed her hands as he spoke. She gripped his just as tightly, as if the world would cease to exist if they let go.</p><p>Their lips whispered past each other in search of the embrace. It was safety. It was security. It was strength. He tucked her in and held her tight. His face buried in her neck, in her hair. She was on tiptoes to grasp the full extent of his arms, of his apology.</p><p>Lips pressed to his ear, her voice soft and low, “Even extraordinary people make mistakes.”</p><p>He hugged her tighter, closer, his arms almost doubled around her small frame. He squeezed until he was sure he would break her. But she squeezed back, her arms around his neck, attempting to fill his entire body with her acceptance.</p><p>It used to be the sawdust that grounded him, healed him. Now, instead, it was a woman named Sloane.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I have watched the elevator scene over and over and this is the only interpretation that works for me. My brain just can't see it any other way,</p></blockquote></div></div>
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